


second time around

by 30toseoul



Series: midnight at McMurdo [2]
Category: Stargate Atlantis
Genre: Antarctica, M/M, Rough Sex
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-04-14
Updated: 2014-04-14
Packaged: 2018-01-19 07:58:35
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,304
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1461724
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/30toseoul/pseuds/30toseoul
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Getting drunk and having inadvisable sex is the most common Antarctic tradition, even if it'll never be reported in a <i>National Geographic</i> special.</p>
            </blockquote>





	second time around

Getting drunk and having inadvisable sex is the most common Antarctic tradition, even if it'll never be reported in a _National Geographic_ special.

John had kind of hoped to get off the continent without participating in it.

He doesn't even have his eyes open when he remembers, and he covers his face with both hands and says, "Fuck," in a muffled, heartfelt voice, and then realizes that while he does have a headache, it's a very small one. Because apparently it only takes one beer and three shots to make him fool around with scientists in semi-public areas. So on top of being an idiot and a slut, he's also a lightweight.

John pulls his hands away from his face and stares blankly at the ceiling for a while.

This is bad in so many ways that he can barely wrap his mind around it. Not only did he stumble out of Southern and disappear with another guy, but he did it with _Rodney McKay_ , who is probably the textbook definition of indiscreet, and who gave such great head that John had pretty much stopped listening for footsteps on the stairs outside the bouldering cave. Anybody could've heard them. Anybody could've seen them leaving, because John had been riding a really fuzzy high from the aftereffects of Jägermeister and having two orgasms in less than an hour, and he hadn't paid much attention.

At least he'd been smart enough to go back to his room alone. He can't imagine anything more panic-inducing than trying to sneak McKay out of his squadron's dorm at eight-thirty in the morning.

.

John hits Sunday brunch as soon as they open the line at ten o'clock.

He's never been more grateful for the large tables in the galley. He sits down in a corner with a bunch of hungover firefighters, and there's enough ribbing conversation that he doesn't have to talk much while he works quickly through his plate of Western omelet and tater tots.

He doesn't look around the galley while he eats. He very carefully doesn't look around the galley while he eats, and he leaves as soon as he's finished, and he takes a side door out of the building rather than walking past the store and the public computers and the Recreation bulletin boards.

It's a gorgeous January day, the temperature barely enough to make him zip up his flight jacket. He spends the rest of the day in places where he's the least likely to run into any scientists. Playing basketball down at the big gym, and watching a football game with some of the electronics techs in the basement of their shop.

Most Sundays he likes to wander around the station. He starts to get that he's being ridiculous as he sticks to the more isolated areas, when he's standing outside a little blue shack and one of the weather observers scares the hell out of him when she throws the doors open to launch a weather balloon. He jumps about two feet and stammers an apology, and she looks at him like he's nuts, and John realizes that he should probably just go home and stay there.

He picks up a couple of takeaway cheeseburgers from the nonsmoking bar, but he isn't even hungry by the time he gets back to his room. He shoves them into the fridge and tries to watch _X-Men 2_ on the evening movie channel, and falls asleep while he's wondering what to say to Rodney when they finally run into each other again.

.

The knocking wakes him up after midnight.

There's no such thing as wartime exercises or a group alert when you're stationed in Antarctica, and he loves the place for that. John doesn't have his sleep interrupted often at McMurdo. When it happens, he knows what it means. He's the highest-ranking officer who gets woken up when one of the airmen gets drunk and stupid and causes trouble.

He's already primed to be angry as he opens the door, and he's completely unprepared to see Rodney standing there.

John goes from half-awake irritation to confused, panicked irritation in about four seconds. He gets as far as, "What the--" before Rodney shoves past him, marches into the middle of the room, and turns around to declare, "Whoever does the housing assignments in this place needs to be _shot_."

John blinks at least six times before he says, "What?"

"Shot," Rodney repeats, glaring at him. "Do you know where I'm staying? This derelict hovel that they must've built right after Shackleton came down here, it's practically falling apart, and I'm sharing a room with three other people! Do you want to hear what they call it, Major? Hotel California! These people are pure evil, there's no other excuse. And the bathroom, the bathroom for everyone on the whole _floor_ , I'm not even going to get started on that, it's so unbelievably disgusting. I probably caught athlete's foot just walking past it. And you're living _here?_ This building is a four-star hotel compared to mine! How many people do you share a bathroom with?"

"One," John says, and tries to stop blinking.

"God, I _hate_ you," Rodney says, swinging a hand around at the room. "I had no idea that you lived like this. It's so -- it's completely wrong. Do you know that most of the Crary Lab _techs_ have better rooms than I do? Just because they've worked here for a couple of seasons!"

"McKay, what the hell are you doing here?" John asks. He pushes the door shut so their voices won't keep echoing into the hallway, and glares back, because this is crazy. Normal people don't barge into someone's room and start yelling about McMurdo housing assignments in the middle of the night.

"Oh, I hacked the Air Force server and found out where you live," Rodney says indifferently. "Hours ago, actually. I suppose I could've called, yes, but I was busy."

John can't help feeling like he's missed something, like he isn't fully awake yet, because Rodney throws his red parka on the floor and gives him an expectant look. "And?" John says.

"And I thought we should try this sober," Rodney says, his tone implying that John is very slow. "Unless my observations were wildly off-base, you seemed to enjoy yourself last night."

John can't immediately think of a plausible way to deny that, so he's still standing there when Rodney steps into him and wraps both hands around his neck and takes advantage of his half-open mouth to haul him into a kiss.

 _This is the worst idea ever,_ John tells himself, but it's hard to care with Rodney's tongue sliding against his. Rodney kisses the same way he talks: scattered and pushy and like it doesn't matter what John wants at all, and he makes an appreciative "Mmmm," noise as John opens his mouth the rest of the way, pushing back, his hands fumbling under Rodney's shirt to find his skin.

Rodney breaks off to pull John's t-shirt over his head, warm fingers rubbing over his ribs before he pulls John toward the bed. "We had enough gymnastics last night, I want to be comfortable," he says against John's mouth. "And it's _hot_ in here."

"Yeah, window's open," John says.

"It needs to be open _more_ ," Rodney complains as John helps him with his shirt.

It's already open all the way, but only the tiniest puffs of air are moving at the edges of the blanket that John hangs over his curtains to help block out the sun. The room never seems to cool off much unless the wind is blowing. John's skin is buzzing all over, a combination of the heat and the feeling of Rodney tugging at his shorts. 

Rodney's clothes take longer, buttons and belt and shoes, and John has to dodge away from Rodney's mouth in the middle of it, saying hoarsely, "Enough, okay, I can't have whisker burn tomorrow," and Rodney snorts laughter against the side of his face, laughter that disappears into a moan when John wraps a hand around their cocks and strokes them together. "Keep it down," John mutters. "Walls are thin."

"Right, sure," Rodney says in a thick, drugged voice. His hands are moving greedily over John's chest, twisting at his nipples and making John suck in his breath, wandering over his hips and down to knead restlessly at John's ass. "Damn, you feel good -- oh fuck, like that, yes, _god_ \--"

 _"Rodney,"_ John snaps in a furious whisper. "Military dorm, did you notice?"

"Yes, actually, I did notice, and the uniforms are hot in ways that you wouldn't believe," Rodneys says, and bites him right underneath his ear.

"Don't mark me!"

"Oh, stop freaking out."

He must've been drunker than he thought last night, because he really doesn't remember Rodney being this irritating. He shoves and Rodney lands sideways on his narrow twin bed with an undignified yelp, light from the edge of the window outlining the thick curve of his shoulders.

He remembers this, though. Wets his lips and goes to his knees, Rodney's hands twining in his hair and rubbing behind his ears, the smell of their sweat mixed together and the musky taste across his tongue as he slides his mouth tight around the glistening head of Rodney's cock, and the sound of Rodney above him gasping, "Sheppard, fuck, _fuck --_ "

 _I'm going to kill him,_ John thinks dizzily, and pulls off and hisses, "If you don't quiet down, I swear I'll throw you out the fucking window!" and Rodney shifts his grip and says impatiently, "Yes, yes, and then you'd explain that I fell out of your room naked because _why?_ Do that again, Major."

John can't believe this, he can't believe that Rodney is actually shoving himself back into John's mouth, pulling him forward by his _hair_ and groaning, "Come on, yes, come on," when John relaxes his jaw, and Rodney's voice hits straight to his nerves and he thinks, _okay then, you want it?_ and he goes down, sucking as fast and messy as he can, shifting up on one knee for a better angle, flexing his throat until Rodney moans, "Yes, yes, oh, that's good, just like that," and he pulls back as Rodney tries to hold him there and pants out, "Come on, don't! Hey!" loud enough that they can probably hear at the goddamn airfield, and John shoves him down hard on his back, crawls up the bed and snarls, "Jesus fuck, McKay, _shut up_ ," and jams the side of his hand into Rodney's mouth.

Rodney's eyes _blaze_ at him -- there's no other word for it -- narrowed and livid with anger, but he's still rock-hard against John's hip, twisting up, and John grins viciously and ducks in, nipping and rubbing his mouth into the curve of Rodney's neck until the skin feels hot and almost raw against his stubble and Rodney is whining continuously behind his hand. He tightens his fingers when Rodney starts to get too loud again, and Rodney's hands claw desperately at his shoulders.

He isn't really thinking at all, he's too busy being furious and more turned on than he's ever been in his life, and John hardly knows that he's going to do it before he grinds down and demands, "Let me fuck you," right into Rodney's ear.

Rodney makes a sound that could be anything, but when he shifts his hand and Rodney sucks hard on two of his fingers rather than biting them off, John decides that it's a yes.

He manages to reach into his nightstand for supplies without ever taking his other hand away from Rodney's mouth, and rips the condom open with his teeth while reciting a silent prayer of thanks that he'd grabbed a few from the public bathrooms, even though he never expected to use them. The lube is messier and he spills some of it with one shaking hand, pushing and tugging at Rodney to get him into position, both of them writhing against each other like teenagers before he shoves Rodney's legs up impatiently and slicks him fast, three fingers driving into him, and Rodney bucks up and shakes his mouth free as John braces and just _shoves_ inside him.

He isn't going to last, and he can't keep Rodney muzzled any longer if he wants to do this right -- and fuck, he's never wanted to do something so badly with Rodney's ass like a vise around his cock and Rodney trying to thrust back at him, and he shuts his mind to Rodney's babbled litany of, "Come on, do it, christ," and _fucks_ him, goes at him hard and fast, hands clamped on the back of Rodney's legs to keep them up, keep him open. He must have found the right angle completely by accident because Rodney's eyes go wide and hazy and it isn't more than a couple of minutes before he gasps, "Fuck, Sheppard, I'm almost --" and then stuffs the side of his own hand into his mouth, and John thinks fiercely, _Good boy_ , and slams into him as Rodney's whole body goes tight and pulsing and he comes hard all over his own chest, shaking with his eyes closed, and John follows right behind him.

His bed isn't big enough to do anything except collapse on top of Rodney, who grumbles and squirms until John recovers enough to pull out and toss the condom away, and Rodney flops a heavy arm around his back and says faintly, "Wow, that was good," and before he can move again, Rodney is snoring into his ear, sticky and much too warm against him.

 _I'll get rid of him in the morning,_ John tells himself sleepily, and drifts off with a thin line of sunlight falling across his face.

**Author's Note:**

> Originally posted in the Livejournal **mckay_sheppard** community on 02 June 2006.


End file.
